


"I love you"

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-13 02:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: He can't say it.  Hewon'tsay it.Maybe he doesn't have to.





	1. "Pull over. Let me drive for a while."

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer that I don't own Lucifer or any of the show's characters and content.** I just started watching it recently and fell in love with the charming devil.
> 
> This is going to be a multi-chapter thing I touch on from time to time, with prompts stemming from [this post here](https://scribblesdg.tumblr.com/post/182188522217/100-ways).  If you want to request any in particular, feel free to [send them here](https://scribblesdg.tumblr.com/ask).  
> 

The window is cool against his head, too cool, too soon, leeching away at the heat from his skin and reminding him of prowling wind so far below doing much the same thing.  He jerks away from it, sudden and violent and if it weren't for the seatbelt he'd have careened into the detective, then _through_ the window when the flurry of motion startles her and she jolts the wheel in the process.  Tyres squeal in protest, as does his stomach, nerves lighting up with the knowledge a wreck now would probably kill him.  So _soon_ after his last departure, too.

Her child stirs weakly in the backseat as the detective frantically corrects their position on the road and he affords a glance backward at the girl, tactfully remaining silent about the white-knuckled death grip employed since they left the warehouse and the rotten sack of meat his brother should have left well enough alone in _his_ domain.  Beatrice sleeps on, perhaps testament to the stress she's been under, her body frantically trying to compartmentalise all that transpired, protecting itself in one of the many mysterious ways the human brain is capable, leaving no room for waking until the task is complete.  Perhaps she feels _safe_ now, secure in their presence.  Regardless, Lucifer envies her the peaceful lull of slumber, something he'll be missing so long as the gates of Hell remain cracked in silent accusation.  Sealed over, yes, barring any further escapes, but still... he can see the loose chains, _feel_ the fault lines every time he closes his eyes.   _Look at what your selfishness has done._

A mortal death, a trip to hell, the fear and fury over the detective's safety upon waking, his persistent confusion over what this is between them, what _she_ is to _him_ , his _mother's_ escape from hell...

It's no wonder he has a headache to end all others, to surpass that of running headfirst into one of his brother's fists.  A headache worsening with every gleaming street light they pass under and - he has no idea how he's going to explain all of this to Linda without the poor woman going grey or kicking him out.  Probably both.  Perhaps he should pay her the hourly charge and half extra.

Beside him his partner glances in the rearview mirror again, and once again stress pulls her shoulders tight and face into a frown.  He stopped counting when she hit double digits but even so...

"Pull over," he says, soft as each of her breaths just in case her child is a sleeper sensitive to _noise_ , unwilling to rouse her until absolutely necessary.  "Let me drive for a while."

"No, no, it's fine.  I just... She's so rarely quiet in the car and you were _shot_ -"

"Chloe," and it's the first he's said her name in weeks, a gravity to his tone that even she, immune to his usual charms as she is, responds to, glancing briefly in his direction as he continues, "you've been through a traumatic day and had your daughter snatched from you.  It is perfectly reasonable for you to be beside her now.  Pull over, I'll get you home safely, you have my word."

The rolling grumble of the engine is his only answer for so long he thinks he might just have to resort to putting his hand over hers and forcibly turning the wheel himself, but no, they're decelerating and headed for the sidewalk. Seemingly no other cars for miles - a lie, he knows - and she still engages the hazard lights.

"Lucifer," she tries again and he _does_ lay his hand on her this time, squeezing gently on her forearm.

"Be with your daughter, Chloe.  Feel the warmth of her and know she's alive in your arms.  This once, please, do as I ask."  They lock stares, exhausted and dark and, in her case, red-rimmed and puffy from crying.  But then there's another rustle of clothes from behind them and the fierce longing wired through the detective's body wins out and she's out of the car and sliding in beside her daughter before Lucifer can properly register that they've _stopped_.  She murmurs to her child, too low even for his hearing, and the restlessness subsides, a quiet sigh in response and Lucifer is positive he hears the girl say "Mamma".

He doesn't comment, though, simply wrangles his way over the centre console and gearstick and coaxes the car to life and speed again.  Their comfort is not his, there are too many storm clouds looming on his horizon, but it _is_ infectious and he finds some tension bleeding from him all the same as he navigates the city with an ease born of five years of joy rides and escapism.

"Thank you, Lucifer."  He glances back in the mirror and finds her eyes waiting for his, tear-bright and sincere, hand gripping her daughter's tight.

"You're welcome, detective.  Rest now, you're both safe."


	2. "You can have half."

He's the _Devil_ , an immortal, a creature of judgement and nightmare with very few weaknesses.  So few, in fact, that he isn't even troubled by the daily scourge befalling humanity known as _hunger_... unless, of course, the detective is nearby.  Which, as his luck would have it, she is (granted it's his own fault for singing off the paperwork and _pushing_ to be a civilian consultant in the first place)!

Lucifer learns within the first twenty minutes that he and stakeouts are sworn enemies, simply for the _boredom_ , that trusty third wheel he never invites along and yet there it is in the shadows he watches, the fingertip he moves along the interior of the car door in search of patterns in the scuffed imperfections, the foot tap-tap-tapping away in the footwell, much too small for him when he likes to stretch out and _sprawl_.  The detective is not one for conversation when her attention must be solely focused on finding their suspect, on darting between windows, doors, and idling cars, an endless cycle to catch but a _glimpse_ of him, to say for certain he's there and follow him when he eventually slinks out like the oily stain he is.  She's not one for _his_ distractions either, fixing him with a glare that'd flay the feathers from each and every one of his Heaven-bound siblings when he dares to settle his phone in hand.  It's a harmless idea, really, thinking perhaps he could engage Maze in some sparring of the wordplay variety, but he wisely chooses to mute the device and thumb through his messages and calendar instead.  Except that hardly takes a bite out of their time cooped up in the car and when he opens his mouth to speak, the detective points a vicious finger at him.

"One word out of your mouth that isn't related to this case, Morningstar, and there is a blue pen in the glove compartment with your name on it."

"Why on _earth_ would I be in need of a pen, detective?  Surely you know by now I always have one on my person."

The finger stabs at him, no less threatening for its lack of a sharp blade, and she leans closer with veiled promise in her eyes.  Which would usually stir a southern interest but she is, apparently, warning him from any mischief.

"I didn't say it was for you to _use_ , Lucifer."

"Then why would my name be on it?"

"Oh I don't know - so I can stab you in the eyeball with it if you don't.  Shut.  Up?"

" _Detective_.  Such a _temper!_   Why, I never knew you felt so strongly about little old me."

"Lucifer -" But he raises his hands in surrender and turns the dazzle on his smile up to seventeen, the picture of innocence when he so rarely is.

"I will be hold my silence unless it relates to this case, detective, you have my word."

Perhaps her less than joyful mood simply stems from a poorly morning, perhaps the offspring is ill or Detective Douche has skimped on his fatherly duties, or she's had little sleep or, like him, frustration bubbles in the background at this _gentleman's_ evasiveness.  He might just have to start cashing in on favours owed soon, and all to track down one scrawny little weasel.

Or perhaps, like Lucifer, she is _hungry_ , an announcement declared so suddenly it startles him, stomach rumbling in such a manner he honestly expects a tiger to be rousing in the back of the car.

It's not a sound he's used to, not a _sensation_ he's used to as it comes to his attention, drawing his hand to the grumbles and a frown across his face as he examines the gnawing emptiness demanding sustenance he _shouldn't require_.  Utterly flabbergasted, he turns his gaze to the detective once more, mouth open on a question stalling somewhere on his tongue, half-formed confusion and accusation both.   _Is there anything your presence cannot foist upon me?_

"Did you not have breakfast this morning, Lucifer?"  Well, at least she doesn't sound like she wants to eat _him_ anymore (not in the fun way, at least).

"No, I -" _don't require mortal food_ , but she cuts him off before he can add anything else to the very long list of items that have her questioning his sanity, his eyebrows hiking in open curiosity as she twists around and leans over to snag the bag she'd dumped in the backseat when they set out.

"One veggie burrito coming up, dumbass.  You can have half."

"Oh no, that's not necessary, detective.  I couldn't possibly -"

"We could be here for another six hours, Lucifer. Unless a death van pulls up there's no other food readily available."  She's offering him her _food_ , one of the several vital keys to her _survival_.  Readily available or not, does she not realise the magnitude, the significance, of such a gesture?  She frowns at him when he still stares at her in silence, mouth open thanks to the shock-loosened hinge of his jaw, plucks the tortilla-wrapped goodness in question from the bag and holds it out to him with a little flourish and a smile.  Like it's a peace offering.  "I haven't poisoned it, I promise.  I'll take the first bite, if you want."

"I - no, that won't be - _thank you_ \- wait, a _death van?_ "

"Yeah.  They deal in heart attacks?  Gastronomical armageddon?"

_Gastronomical armageddon?_ His horror must paint a picture on his face because she breaks into a peals of laughter, slapping first her thigh and then his shoulder as she cackles.

"Just eat the damn burrito before your stomach joins us as a second passenger, Lucifer."

He peels the burrito, _her_ burrito, so freely shared when he has no true need of it - not that she _knows_ that, he supposes - from the clingfilm and obediently takes a bite, reeling at humanity's single-minded determination to wipe their existence from the planet sooner rather than later.  And then he's reeling for an entirely different reason, the flavours and textures coming alive in his mouth rapid-fire and _oh_ , okay, he thinks he might understand gluttony from a human's perspective now, can't help but hum his appreciation as he chews.

"Only _half_ , remember.  That's to be my lunch, too."

* * *

He takes an extra sneaky bite just because he can, well worth the betrayed glower and shove on the shoulder, and resolves to treat her to a dinner of his own making.  A _feast_ to see her through to the following noon, at least.

Though he will swear under their pretty little oaths that her cooking is the best, by far, and no amount of squealed and bashful protests will convince him otherwise.


	3. "It reminds me of you."

There's something about Lucifer's arrival that lights up a room and loudly announces his presence.  It's not the delighted call of "Detective!".  It's not a sudden calamity of slamming doors.  It's not a spotlight trained on him.  It's not the fluid grace of his movements, either, that prowling, calculated gait of a big cat on the hunt.  Chloe's not quite sure _what_ it is, like a magnetic pull of some sort, drawing the eyes and ears of all around before he's uttered a single word.  Whatever it is, she seems as immune to it as she is his so-called "charms".  An immunity granting her those last few peaceful moments necessary to catch everyone else grinding to a halt.

In the breakroom someone overshoots their coffee, silence broken by a round of startled swearing.  Bopping away to the music throbbing through _her_ domain, Ella misses a step, a beat, swivels on her heel and eyes already searching him out.  The low drone of a dozen conversations falters and dies like the words on parted lips, and even Dan stills for a moment, grip slackening on the case file and sending paperwork fluttering across her desk.  The effect isn't contained solely to the precinct, either.  How many times has he been overtaken by a swarm of admirers?  How many men and women stick to his elbows like glue and don't even know his _name_?  Witnesses stumbling over their words, suspects hesitating with their shot, servers acknowledging her presence in _seconds_ if Lucifer accompanies her, proceeding to stall on her order because their eyes are on him and him alone.

"How do you do it?"  She asks him one night, hands like claws on his arm as they weave through the dancing, weighted press of bodies.  His palm is a naked flame over the back of her hand, an anchor against the tide, refusing to relinquish her and lose track of her in their hunt.

"How do I do what, detective?"  He replies, pitching his voice above the music.  He meets her gaze then, dark eyes bright and intense in the club's chaos and her breath fizzles out somewhere in her lungs.  Utterly captivating, like the mystery sprawling between glimmering stars.   _Definitely_ a pull, then.

Or maybe she's projecting.  Maybe the confused snare of rationality and _intrigue_ around him, about him, highlights him in an appeal that isn't actually there.  Is she falling for him?  No, no, she can't be.   _Attractive or not, keep it platonic, Decker._

"Draw everyone's attention like that."

"Like what?"  There's mischief in the smirk flashed her way, the glimmer of teeth, but she thinks there might be genuine curiosity, too.

_Or maybe he's just messing with you._

* * *

"Remind me again why I agreed to this hellish plan?"  He sounds as grouchy as he looks, lips pinched into a thin line and eyes narrowing with his frown.  He's forgone the standard eyeliner and at first glance she thinks the dark smudges beneath his eyes are the remnants of last night's.  But no, maybe not, do they speak of poor slumber instead as he yawns so wide his jaw clicks?  Rogue curls frame his face and while his suit is impeccable as ever, there's a subtle hint of... well.  He's also missing a pair of cufflinks.  Can she get away with thinking it's the most unkempt she's ever seen him to date?

"Detective?"  Oh, right, shit, staring.  Whoops.

"I wanted you to see something."

"And... it couldn't wait until standard working hours because...?"

"You'll see," she replies with a smile and dares to link her arm through his, silently _delighted_ when he follows her lead without complaint and they start walking.

There's a nip in the air, an extra chill carried along with brine from the ocean, targeting her face and ears and drawing a shiver down her spine even though she's wrapped up against it.  On the plus side, there isn't long to wait, but until then... perhaps she could have come up with a better idea.

"Cold?"  He asks and doesn't wait for an answer before he's depriving her of the furnace he is, drawing back to remove his jacket and she protests loudly, immediately.  He'll catch his death of a - oh.  Oh that's nice, she thinks.   _Lucifer_ is nice, a gentleman at times and rogue flirt at others, a walking dumpster fire on every other occasion.  She tucks herself into his jacket as he settles it around her shoulders, all but purring at the added ward from early morning's cruel fingers.

"Thank you," she says and yes, okay, maybe she _does_ lean into him when he reclaims her arm and matches his stride to hers.  But who can blame her?   _Walking furnace_ , indeed.

* * *

"Remember what I said last night, about drawing everyone's attention?"

"How could I _forget_ , my dear?  You sounded, dare I say it... almost... _jealous_ ," mirth in his eyes, in the teasing purr of his voice, and she elbows him for good measure.  But the time is _just right_ and she turns them to the open water and the reflection of dawn's first blush on the horizon.  It's usually hidden by low lying mist and fog but sometimes... sometimes it matches _his_ pull, draws every eye and breath and awed sigh in its direction.

"Like this," she whispers, chances a glance at him to find his gaze right where she wants it, no smart remark on his tongue this time.  Does he _get it_ , she wonders... and decides to elaborate just in case, safe in this moment without another soul as witness around for miles.

"It reminds me of you, Lucifer.  Present every single day, a slow advance no-one can possibly miss.  A fire on the horizon, warm and inescapable and drawing every eye whether they realise it or not.  You bring a light with you, a bounce in your step, a flash of colour to a dreary day, and everyone to a pause just for a moment.  Just to admire, until life kicks up again and the havoc of it begins again."

Silence.  A great, yawning silence, so absolute that she squirms and - no, she can't take the words back.  Can't pop the awkward bubble they've cast.  Can't laugh it off, either.

"Detective," he says, somewhat choked, as if there's a tie too tight around his neck.  And if she happens to notice that his eyes seem brighter than usual... well, he's allowed to be vulnerable around her without fear of judgement or ridicule.  "You realise the attention I garner stems from my charms, yes?"

"Maybe.  But we both know I'm immune to them, right?  This is how _I_ see you, Lucifer.  You're not as devillish as you think."

He doesn't reply to that.  Maybe he doesn't _have_ a reply and that's okay.  Chloe doesn't need one.

She leans into his side, smiling when his arm eventually comes around her and squeezes _just so_ , a world of emotion in the contact that he can't give voice to.

They watch the sunrise together.


	4. "Here, drink this. You'll feel better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dropping a note here before I forget! This fic won't necessarily be in order of canon events. You might find mentions of season 2 in earlier chapters and season 1 mentions in later chapters. Apologies in advance, I'm winging this one and writing down the ideas as they come to me. Think of each chapter as a standalone oneshot.

He should leave.  He knows he should leave.  The longer he stays the weaker his resolve but... he can't walk away with Chloe still in hospital.  Still so fragile and pale and exhausted from the ravages of the poison it's a miracle his sister hasn't come to usher her soul to heaven yet.

_Miracle._ Pah.  Molten flame licks over his face with the burst of fury over such a seemingly innocent word but Lucifer takes a breath, and another, and another, until the sensation passes, until his own reflection greets him in the window.  It's not the detective's _fault_ and he shouldn't punish her by leaving so soon.  But he wants to, oh how he wants to.  Just pick a direction and start walking until there's such a gulf between them that he forgets her name and she forgets his.  The same name he signs on her discharge papers and the same name associated with the prompt payment of her hospital bills.

He should leave, but he can't.  He won't.  Not until he knows she's home safe and sound, a stroke of insanity that has him trading the Corvette with Daniel for a car with five seats and suitable space for the offspring to accompany them from the hospital.  Mother and daughter snooze in the backseat while Lucifer navigates the roads, a sight in the rearview mirror both tugging at his blackened heart and stomping it to smithereens.

"This isn't fair, you bastard," he says, low and vicious as he casts a glance heavenward.  Whether dear old Dad watches or not... he doesn't know or care in this moment.  The detective comes first, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire, trapped in the game of chess alongside him, pawns swept across the board by one "divine" parent or another.

* * *

The detective manages the stairs under her own power, slow and costly progress that leaves her clinging to the railing on their level while she pants for breath and shivers in the night air.  She looks for all the world like a simple breath of wind will shatter her into a million pieces and he - _worries_ for her.  The child toddles on ahead to unlock the door at her mother's request, leaving them alone for a few precious minutes he'd much rather _avoid_.  She grips his arm as tightly as she does the banister and of course it's only in her bloody presence that he registers the _pain_ from such pressure.  _Truly_ the greatest cosmic joke at his expense to date.

"I won't be much in the way of good company tonight, Lucifer.  You can go home, if you want."

He should leave.  He knows he should.  He even has her permission to.  Go home, pack up his belongings and leave for a few days.  Gather his wits about him and shake the last remnants of hell from his skin, maybe drink himself into a stupor that'll burn away the phantom memory of Uriel's blood on his hands, Uriel's dying breath in his ears, the detective's deadweight in his arms during the rush to hospital.

He should _leave_.  Now.

But he can't.  And so he wrangles the barest shade of a smile onto his face instead and curls his arm around her waist to support her wobbly progress into her humble abode.

"Come now, detective, it's no trouble to see you home and settled for the night."  A weary sigh is his only answer, her head coming to a brief rest against his shoulder.  Oh how he _burns._

* * *

_"MOMMY!"_

He startles into motion before he's even fully awake, body responding to the sheer _terror_ in the child's scream and taking the stairs two at a time before he can even get his eyes all the way open.  Commotion from the detective's room and a light turning on, her body crashing into the hallway before Lucifer can reach the door and -

Right.  No intruders, then.  No doctor back to poison her again and finish the job.  Just a mother's wild eyes and steel determination to reach her offspring despite the faltering state of her own health.  Sobbing and panicked breaths and then the child in question is barrelling from her room and directly into Lucifer's legs, seemingly blinded by tears as she wails a mile a minute.

_"Mommy!  Where's Mommy?!  The bad man took Mommy, I can't find her!"_

"Small human -"

"I'm right here, monkey," her mother says and goes to her knees without care of being unable to stand again.  She weathers the storm of her child's fright, holds her tight while she shakes in distress and Lucifer - doesn't know what to do.  Hovers for lack of anything else, wonders if he should carry them _both_ to the detective's bed and tuck them under a mountain of blankets.  Or maybe he should make his escape now and avoid the snot and tears entirely.  "I'm here, baby, it's okay, Mommy's safe.  The bad man's gone and Lucifer's here.  He saved me, remember?  It's okay, shh baby, Mommy's here.  I'm not going anywhere."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Not that such a thing seems to calm her offspring any and Lucifer finally listens to the nagging pull at the back of his head.

He leaves.

* * *

Little Beatrice joins him in the kitchen some twenty minutes later, sniffling and teary-eyed still, something too painful and _haunted_ to have home on a child's face.

"Thank you for saving my Mom, Lucifer," she mumbles and his heart breaks at the clear note of her suffering.

"Your gratitude isn't necessary, child, I -"

"Trixie."

"Pardon?"

"My friends call me Trixie."

Oh.  Oh dear.  This is - _not_ territory he wants to find himself in.  What to _do?_ Running is certainly out of the question.  As is praying for strength or guidance, but maybe...

"Can I interest you in a drink, Trixie?  Something to soothe your throat and troubled wee heart?"

She fixes him with a grave, _grave_ stare and says, quite seriously, "tea tastes of lies and dead dreams, Lucifer" and he can't help but laugh.  Too loud for the late hour, too long for the lack of apparent joke, but is laughter not better than tears?  Better than screaming?  Better than going on the hunt for corrupt souls to punish?

He promises her hot chocolate instead, brewed with the Devil's kiss, and plonks her down on the sofa with a pat on the head and warning to be good while he navigates the kitchen as quietly as possible, loathe for something to disturb her mother a second time.

There is nothing special about _the_ Devil's brew except, perhaps, the whispered wish for her to be at peace.  He's incapable of blessings without his wings and their grace, but he'd like to think the thought at least counts for something.

And when he wakes in the morning to a sore back and stiff neck and urchin drool ruining the sleek grey lines of his suit... well.  Maybe heartfelt wishes can be answered, too.

The mean cup of coffee the detective offers him five minutes later is... more than worth the hassle.

"Here, drink this.  You'll feel better."


	5. "I'll walk you home."

He could leave if he so desires, his obligations tied off in a neat little bow with the conclusion of his statement.  He could leave and call in a favour from Amenadiel, _borrow some time_ to fetch his ruined shirt from the Corvette before the humans got their paws on a divine blood sample.  He could leave and open Lux's doors early, treat his loyal patrons to free drinks for the night... or a few hours, at least.

He could leave.  He has no reason to linger.

He chooses to stay, eyes and ears tuned to the detective's daughter and her safety in a compromised department while mother and father are kept at a distance due to their own involvement in the case.  He chooses to stay even when Penelope Decker arrives in the wee hours of the morning as the guardian to oversee the child's interview.

He chooses to stay, a friend in all the chaos, at least one unchanged constant in the face of Malcolm Graham turning the detective's world upside down.  Some support when she doesn't know who else to trust.

* * *

Chloe Decker is an impressive woman, a gentle and compassionate soul tucked under the armour of years and experience in the police force.  A pokerface to rival Lucifer's own, a moral compass to shame Amenadiel's, a steel core wrapped in the marshmallows her child is so fond of.  And he watches her splinter and crack under pressure, patience waning as her stress rises.  She fidgets first, feet tapping and fingers drumming as she looks, drawn back time and again to the interview room housing her daughter.  She mutilates second, meticulously pulling paperclips out of shape and wrapping them 'round her little finger, breaking the lead in her pencil to smithereens as it bounces off her desk in rapid-fire flicks, the skin on her own lips next, bitten bloody and raw.  Then comes the pacing, an explosion of movement as she rebounds from her desk and prowls back and forth beside it.  An injured animal, caged and keyed up to attack, and in her steady unravelling Lucifer sees the imperfection of humanity's design.  Questions once again how his father could create such a self-destructive species so prone to corruption and persuasion, and declare it a masterpiece.

The fire in Chloe Decker's soul burns bright, bright and _cold_ , keeps her on her feet when exhaustion weighs her down and mangles her words and bruises her eyes.  It roars vicious as Hellfire when that door finally opens, fades like a dying star as she drops to her knees and her child crashes into her arms.

"Mommy!"

"Hey monkey."

"Can we go home now?  Please?  I just wanna go home."

"I think so, but I'll need to check first, okay?  Can you stay with Lucifer for a minute?"

Wait what?!  When did he sign up for babysitting duty?  "Detective!"

"I'll be right back," she replies, flashing him a weary smile before she's off to find the person in charge or make a few phone calls to pull _more_ unfortunate sods from the warm comfort of slumber.  Leaving him to entertain a child seemingly two seconds from bursting into tears again, if the trembling bottom lip is anything to go by.

"Please keep your snot and tears to yourself, small human," he says as he shakes out his handkerchief, holding it out to her like a peace offering.

She laughs, weak and wobbly, but takes it from him all the same. "You're weird, Lucifer."

_"Aren't we all?"_

* * *

The child is a _terror_ , so much so he wonders why hell doesn't form more of them as a side of torture.  She's unwilling to step foot in another car so long as she's awake, stubborn as her mother even with the fight visibly flagging in the both of them as exhaustion snaps at their heels.

"Trixie, baby, we'll be walking for almost an hour.  Are you sure you don't want to catch a ride with Dad and Grandma?"

"No, no more cars, please."

"Monkey -"

 _"Please_ , Mommy."

"I'll walk you home."

It isn't until the detective's eyes are on him, full of questions and incredulity, that he realises the offer was said aloud.  And oh what he'd give to reach through time and pluck the words back, smother them in his gut before he can give voice to them.   _What in the fresh hell -?_   Why is he volunteering to spend more time around a child when it isn't a necessity?  Why, why, _why?_

* * *

"Wait, wait, wait.  Time out.  You offered to walk them home?"

"Oh, I didn't just offer.  I _did_."

"Walk them home," Linda says again.

"Yes."

"At the back of, what, two in the morning?"

"2.14 to be precise, but yes."

She's doing that thing again.  One leg daintily folded over the other, hands clasped on her knee, foot swivelling in midair as she regards him over her glasses.  It's her patented _you're doing something blatantly obvious and you're a fool to be missing it, why do I bother with you again?_ look.

" _You_ walked detective Decker and _her daughter_ home at 2.14 in the morning, unprovoked, for no apparent reason?"

"Well, we only walked so far as the child was awake.  I called a cab when she fell asleep in the detective's arms."

"Oh Lucifer, what am I going to do with you?"

"What?  It seemed like a good idea at the time."

... He's missing something, isn't he?


	6. "Have a good day at work."

Dust in his lungs.

Metal on his tongue.

A cold like no other held tight in his hand.

Advice for his ear.

Death rattle in his heart, and Uriel gasps his last.

There should be warmth, there should be heat, a scalding accusation and damnation spread over his fingers and painting them red.  His brother’s blood, fresh from the vein, gift of life shed in death and gleaming on Azrael’s dagger.

Unnatural,  _wrong,_ the end manifest, and it dims the last traces of Uriel’s light until he clasps only a husk in his arms.  Cold, so cold, creeping ice from the blade, chilling his skin and bone and breath and brain and he stalls.

_What have I done what have I done what have I done_

He doesn’t hear the command in Maze’s voice when she says his name.  He doesn’t meet her challenge when she seizes hold of him and shakes him.  He doesn’t remember locking his fingers ‘round the dagger  _(no-one else can have this power, it is wrong, it does not belong)_ or the ride home or being stripped and shoved into a shower hot enough to blister the flesh from human bones.

_He’s gone I killed him he’s gone I killed him he’s **gone**_

* * *

Amenadiel beside him, a mountainous bulk he found irritating only hours ago, steady and sure where Lucifer is lost.  He speaks, cautious and quiet, and it stirs Lucifer from the phantom weight of a dead body, the slick he can’t scrub clean from his palms, the memories, the  _reality_.

_What have I done he’s gone I killed him_

“There’s been a family bereavement.  He’s… not handling it well.”

_Bereavement,_ pah.  Of course he’s not handling it well!  It was murder, by his own hand!

“Oh, of course, I didn’t - I’ll just go - I’m sorry for your loss.”

_Chloe_.

She’s  _safe_.

A gentle hand on his shoulder, and it’s the first he’s felt warmth since the give of flesh to metal - her gaze is steady, concerned, her smile a muted and wavering thing.

“Detective...”

“Take all the time you need, Lucifer.”

“… Have a good day at work.”

* * *

_"Take all the time you need, Lucifer."_

What kind of stupid thing is  _that_ to say to someone who'd just lost a family member?  He'd have nothing  _but_ time.  Time to make phone calls and meet funeral directors and torture himself over plans and payments and floral arrangements.

Or maybe not - had they been close?  Will Amenadiel take over instead?  Or maybe his father?  Will be be at the funeral?  Will she finally get to meet him and riddle his stomach full of lead for all the damage he's done to his son?  Or is daddy dearest the one who kicked the bucket?  Unlikely given Lucifer's reaction but... she's heard of stranger things than one last glimmer of love making an appearance.

He has all the time in the  _world_ to grieve, and all the formalities of death to steal it away again.  Will he remember to take a breather?  Will he remember to feed himself, rest, shower, put one foot in front of the other and keep  _moving?_ Will he remember to do something for  _himself_ once a day, every day, for the next few weeks?  Will he learn his limits and stop before his breaking point, or will he crash and burn?

_"Take all the time you need, Lucifer."_

Time... grief's best friend and worst enemy.  And what of his family - the brothers and sisters mentioned but otherwise unknown?  Will they come out of the woodwork in support of him or to hurt him?  Will the reunion do him good or send him deeper into his... coping mechanisms?  Delusions?  Method acting?

Will anyone listen?  Will anyone  _wait_ with him?

The cursor blinks back at her, marking the seconds, the minutes, the paperwork still outstanding and the emails not yet sent.  She should knuckle down and power through it.  30 minutes.  If she sticks at it for 30 minutes she'll  _keep_ at it until her alarm goes off to remind her home does, actually, exist.

* * *

It takes just over those 30 minutes to get to Lux, thanks to traffic.  She knows she made the right call the moment she steps from the elevator and spies Lucifer beside his piano.  On the floor.  Sprawled as if he'd fallen there and forgotten how to get up again.

No sign of Amenadiel so... Lucifer is on his own with grief as a merry companion?

"Detective?"  A quiet rasp, like he hasn't spoken since she left earlier, in the morning.  Hours ago.  Eight, at least.  She tactfully doesn't mention the red rimming his eyes in angry announcement of tears, or the smudged eyeliner, or the absolute riot of his hair, or the rumpled shirt, or... the stare passing right through her.   _Grief._   It makes a ruin of everyone.

"Hey.  Thought you could use some company," she replies and grabs two cushions from the sofa before joining him.  The floor is  _cold_ and too goddamn hard for her head, his, too, since he lets her rectify the discomfort with minimal fuss, pitching up on his elbows just enough for her to jam the makeshift pillow behind his neck.

"I'm afraid I won't be much in the way of entertainment tonight, detective."

"That's okay," she says and folds her hands over her tummy, staring up at the ceiling as he does.  Trixie, she thinks, would have a  _field day_ with all that empty space and glow in the dark stars.  If Lucifer ever agrees to the decoration, of course.  They lie together in silence for a while, and if she happens to hear every strain and hitch in his breathing and every painful swallow, well.  She gets it.  She's not going to mention it.

"You know, when my Dad died, I tried so hard to go back to normal," the focus of his gaze on her face is almost strong enough to be a physical touch, "go out with friends.  Try my hand at a few part-time jobs.  Pursue a couple of acting offers that wound up being a waste of time.  I helped Mom plan the funeral and... after it... I tried to convince myself nothing was wrong, but there was.  My Dad wasn't part of anything anymore, and I didn't want to keep saying it.  I didn't want sympathy or pity, I just wanted my Dad back.  And I wanted a friend to just...  _be_ with me.  No talking or nights out or movie nights in or anything, just... be.  Just some companionship."

"What are you getting at, detective?"

"You don't have to act around me, Lucifer.  You don't have to do anything if you don't want to.  Talk and I'll listen, listen and I'll talk.  You want to get drunk?  The bar's right there, I'll try to get you into bed in one piece, no funny business involved.  Or if you want to have a sleepover right here I can drag the sheets down here right now.  Whatever you want, Lucifer, no expectations or obligations.  It's just us."

"But  _why?"_   He asks, sounding so _lost_ and Chloe rolls onto her side to face him, throws an arm over his chest and monitors the rhythm of its rise and fall.   _His_ rhythm.   _I'm here, Lucifer._

_"Why not?"_   She counters, and laughs when his only answer is an eyeroll and weary sigh.

* * *

He talks eventually, the halting rasp of his voice pulling her out of a light doze.  He talks and talks and talks until he runs out of stories to tell about his younger brother, until grief threatens to choke him up again.  Chloe doesn't think when he falters, only acts, tucks herself into his side and holds him close when he curls into her, holds him  _tight._   He's lost and alone thanks to the animosity pulling his family apart and yet, despite it, despite the fighting and being kicked out, despite seeing none of them (except for Amenadiel) for  _years_... he loved his brother.

And Chloe's heart breaks for him.

"My apologies for pulling you from your work, detective," he says into her shoulder, muffled and garbled and yet she gets the gist of it anyway.

"Don't be.  I chose to come here.  Friends first, work second."

"Detective -"

"Shh.  It's alright."

He hesitates a moment, then his arm slides over her waist.  She smiles once, briefly, and squeezes gently.  He'll be okay, he'll heal in time set aside for him   She'll make sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> My fics can also be [found here](https://scribblesdg.tumblr.com).
> 
> And if you just want to ~~scream~~ chat about Lucifer, you can find me on my [main blog](https://wrathoscribbles.tumblr.com) as well. I don't bite, I promise.


End file.
